


Day 5: Time

by MADR1D1SMO



Series: Cressi Week 2017 [5]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Career Ending Injuries, Fix-It, Gen, Magic, Over-Protective Geri, Team as Family, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, cressiweek2k17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 08:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12272280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MADR1D1SMO/pseuds/MADR1D1SMO
Summary: During a Clásico match Leo gets a severe career-ending injury after which he would never be able to play again. Cristiano doesn’t realise how much competition is important for him until it’s gone. He gets one chance to go back in time and try to prevent the injury, but will Leo believe him when he tries to warn him?





	Day 5: Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prompt_fills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/gifts).



> sort of inspired by prompt_fills' Ramos & Messi fic "Crow's Feet" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/10780158)

_I can't win, I can't reign_

_I will never win this game_

_Without you, without you_

_I am lost, I am vain,_

_I will never be the same_

_Without you, without you_

 

Cristiano runs forward, getting past Piqué to get to the penalty area. He’s already celebrating the upcoming goal internally. Barcelona? Defence? What a joke. He turns around, ready to receive the assist from Luka, but the pass never comes. Luka freezes abruptly and kicks the ball out of the pitch, making everyone around him stop as well.

Cristiano almost screams in disappointment. _What now?_

Luka turns around and starts walking back. He squats down next to a Barcelona player who’s sitting on the ground, head down. Cristiano can’t really see his face but he recognises the painfully familiar number #10 on the back. Messi.

It takes all of the will power in him to not roll his eyes - that would be hard to explain later - because of-fucking-course. It’s always Messi, always the small forward standing in his way. He doubts they will be able to recreate such a carefully crafted counter attack again.

Alba is sitting next to Messi, a hand on his back, face twisted with raw concern. He’s exchanging words with Luka, both looking alarmingly worried. More people start pulling over to the scene, voices strangely quiet. Marcelo is covering his mouth with a hand, Piqué’s eyes are wide in fear.

That’s when he notices it. Messi’s leg is bent in a sickeningly unnatural angle and his shoulders are shaking. Cristiano swallows. He understands why Luka cut off such a good attack now.

When the replay is played on the large screen, his head jerks up together with thousands of fans around them. It looks even worse in slow-motion, accompanied by the fans’ terrified gasps. Carvajal’s foot collides with Messi’s leg - it doesn’t look intentional, but that doesn’t make the effect any lighter. It wouldn’t be as bad if it ended there, but when Messi falls he lands very badly. The fall bends the leg even further, and Cristiano doesn’t doubt that if the bone is not broken it’s at least cracked.

He tears his gaze away from the screen, unable to take the sight in any longer, and looks over to his teammates. He searches for Carvajal. The defender isn’t trying to make excuses or defend himself - if anything, he looks like he might throw up. Camp Nou is silent as well, in a collective state of shock, too terrified for mindless whistling or booing.

Before anybody can register what’s happening, the medical team comes rushing onto the pitch and slowly, carefully place Messi on a medical stretcher. Messi is covering his face with a hand and when his leg is moved from the grass to the stretcher he bites his lip so hard it draws blood. Cristiano’s throat feels very dry suddenly. Before his mind can start having unwanted flashbacks to the Euros he looks away quickly, biting his lip.

None of them can really concentrate on the game after that. Suárez and Neymar keep losing the ball, Iniesta’s pass accuracy drops down significantly and Piqué’s mind seems to be elsewhere. It’s not just Barcelona either - Toni and Luka keep missing very obvious opportunities, Marcelo’s passes become unsure and hesitant. Even Cristiano surprises himself when he misses a ridiculously easy shot. He wants to be mad at himself for not using the others’ state to his advantage and just scoring, but can’t manage to summon the energy to do so.

The remaining thirty minutes pass in silence, completely uneventful. If not for the jerseys, you couldn’t have guessed it’s El Clásico, not a regular La Liga match. When Neymar gets subbed off fifteen minutes before the end of the match he just collapses gracelessly on the bench, pulls his jersey up to cover his face and starts sobbing.

The match ends in a draw.

The locker room is quiet. It’s a different quite, different from the quiet of a loss. It’s somehow worse; more empty.

Nobody says anything until the door opens slowly and Iniesta comes in. He’s not wearing the blaugrana jersey anymore, dressed in a casual t-shirt and jeans, and the look in his eyes is very tired. Visiting the rival dressing room is usually a no-go, but he knows half of the squad from the national team, and considering the circumstances, it feels like the most natural thing to do.

There’s silence until Sergio speaks up. “How is he?” His voice is hoarse, a bit shaky. Not the usual confident captain tone. He clears his throat and tries again. “How is.. How is Messi?”

Iniesta smiles. It’s a tired, sad smile, but it’s rather genuine. “He’s in the hospital right now.” He says in a quiet voice, leaning against one of the lockers, like standing is taking too much energy right now. “The doctors said the leg will probably heal.. With the right treatment he will be able to walk with no problem.” He pauses, probably gathering the strength to continue. The “but” is left hanging in the air. “But he will never be able to play again. Professionally, at least.”

Everything around them seems to freeze. The room is filled with a dead silence. It’s almost like nobody is breathing.

“You said he’s in the hospital.” Cristiano turns to look at Carvajal. His voice is small and shaky as he speaks, but his eyes are determined. “Can I go see him? To apologise? _Please_ , Andrés, I feel horrible.”

Iniesta’s eyes seem to soften. “It’s not your fault, Dani.” He says, and Cristiano is amazed by the soothing kindness and sincerity in his voice. It reminds him of Iker, who, just like Iniesta and Xavi, always knew how to put the things that _really_ matter above club rivalries. His heart clenches painfully. “These things.. They happen in football. It’s a dangerous game. It could’ve been anybody.”

“It doesn’t matter! _I_ feel like it’s my fault.” He stammers, the words coming out in a rush. “I want to apologise to him, please.”

Iniesta watches him thoughtfully, considering the situation for a moment. “Okay.” He says finally. “Okay. You can come with me.”

Sergio stands up abruptly, almost dropping the bench he was sitting on with the intensity of it. “I should come too.” He states. “As.. As the captain. Messi deserves a formal apology from the team.”

Iniesta studies him. There seems to be some kind of inner battle going on inside him. Cristiano can see where he’s coming from - Messi doesn’t make the impression of an overly social guy. It’s better to let him have his time alone; with his own thoughts and with his close teammates. But it’s a tough situation, an apology is the least they can offer. Taking it away from him without even letting him know first would be cruel.

After a long moment, Iniesta finally sighs and nods in agreement. “Fine. You two can come with me.” He lets his gaze go from Carvajal to Sergio, and then, all of a sudden, over to Cristiano. “Do you want to come too?”

It’s not until he asks that Cristiano suddenly realises how badly he wants to. He can’t explain where it’s coming from, but it’s there and he knows that the thought won’t leave him alone until he does something about it. “No,” He says instead, surprising even himself. “I think it will be better if I stay. I don’t want to… Disturb.”

Nobody tries to push further.

Cristiano wishes they would.

 

He finds himself in the hospital anyway, later that day. He got the address and the room number from Sergio, who gave him a strange look, but, thankfully, didn’t ask.

To his luck, Messi is alone in the room. He seems to be asleep, so Piqué, Iniesta and the others must’ve left to let him rest, Cristiano figures.

He pushes his hands inside the pockets of his jacket, leans against the door and watches. He doesn’t know why he’s there, or what he is trying to achieve. For once in his life, he isn’t sure what he wants. He’ll probably stay here, looking at the cast on Messi’s leg until he feels sick and then leave.

“I can hear you, you know.”

Messi’s sudden voice makes Cristiano jump and step back. He hits one of the shelves behind him and lets out a pained hiss, reaching to rub at his throbbing head. So much for not causing a fuss.

Messi opens his eyes slowly. They’re red, almost bloodshot. Could be from the pain killers, could be from crying. Could be both. Cristiano really doesn’t want to know.

“What do you want?”

His voice isn’t outright hostile, but it isn’t exactly welcoming either, making Cristiano regret he decided to come in the first place. But he’s here, and Messi is here as well, so he might as well just say what’s on his mind.

He sighs and takes a step closer. He studies the white wall just above Messi’s head, gathering the courage to make eye contact. He has no idea where all of his confidence has gone to.

“I need you to believe me when I say that I’m not… Happy. About.. This situation.” He manages finally, pronouncing the words slowly and carefully. He needs Messi to _understand_.

The other smiles humorlessly. “But you aren’t exactly heartbroken about the fact that I’m out either.” The words sting like daggers, and Cristiano desperately hopes that it doesn’t show on his face. “Don’t feel bad about it.” Messi looks sideways, glancing at Barcelona’s lighted streets outside the window. “You’re just human, it’s natural.”

Cristiano wants to tell him that he’s there not because it’s good for their PR image. That he’s there because he’s not some kind of heartless, arrogant asshole who only cares about money and trophies, no matter what some people may say. Because people are going to talk, the press is going to talk, his teammates are going to talk, and before Messi hears any of that, Cristiano needs him to hear what _he_ has to say, directly.

He wants to say all of that and a bunch of other things, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to make it about himself again. He’s well aware that no matter what he might be feeling, what Messi’s feeling is much, much worse than that.

“Congrats on the FIFA best player this year.” Messi says, breaking his train of thought, and Cristiano realises that he’s looking at him again. “And all the years to come.”

Cristiano realises he has no right to feel offended. He realises Messi is acting the way he is because he’s hurting, badly. He realises that the right, mature thing to do would be to sit down and _talk_.

Instead, he turns around and leaves, closing the door behind him with a bang.

 

Real Madrid wins La Liga and Copa del Rey that year. Barça keep losing points until by the end of the season they’re unusually low on the table, below Atleti, below Valencia, below Sevilla.

Everyone is saying how they’re still in shock, how they’ll come around, get better, but deep down they all know that things are never going to be the same without Messi. He was a unique player, nobody could ever replace him. The only forward who’s considered to be on the same level as him is Cristiano himself, and he plays for Madrid.

 

Just as Messi predicted, he wins all the titles that year.

“And the FIFA best player of the year award goes to… Cristiano Ronaldo.”

Cristiano exhales, opens his eyes and stands up. He shakes hands with everyone around him, sends well-practiced smiles to the cameras, gives an emotional speech.

“A great fellow player, Lionel Messi, is not with us today, which is very unfortunate.” Cristiano looks up from the mic, studying the faces around him. These aren’t his words, it’s the text their PR manager gave him and it feels wrong, wrong, wrong. They won everything, _he_ won everything and it all still feels wrong. Cristiano wonders why he’s not happy.

 

After the ceremony is over he hands the trophy to Sergio, unable to bear the burning touch of it any longer, says he has to make some interviews, and goes to one of the public bathrooms in the hall. It’s empty, luckily. He locks the door behind him and leans against the sinks, pressing his fingers into his closed eyes.

It’s the first time he goes to the gala without him, he realises. Even back when he was in United, when Kaká won the Ballon d’Or, it’s always been him and Messi. Ronaldo and Messi.

Cristiano’s heart aches.

Something is missing. He won, but it feels like he.. Didn’t. The usual thrill, the anticipation, the tension.. It’s all gone. He _knew_ he would win this. He _knew_ there was no player who could compete with him. He expected it.

It’s weird, when he thinks about it. Being the absolute, unarguable best is what he always dreamed about and yet, as he’s standing there, looking at himself in the mirror, he doesn’t feel satisfied. He finds himself missing the rush that goes through his body before the winner’s announcement. The way his heart used to miss a beat and all air used to knock out of his lungs when it did, indeed, end up being his name.

He finds himself missing Leo Messi.

Cristiano’s lips twist in a humorless smile. He throws his head back, eyes closed.

It’s funny, he thinks. It’s funny because saying that he never tried imagining a world without Messi would be a lie. He did. He spent so much time wondering how different his life, his career would’ve been if the Barcelona forward did not exist.

Here it finally is. And he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Fuck.”

He clenches his hand into a fist and punches the counter. Hard.

“ _Fuck_ ,” He hisses again, but this time it’s because of the pain throbbing through his knuckles.

“Enjoying being the best player in the world?” A voice coming from behind him asks, and it makes Cristiano jump and turn around.

Xavi is standing right there, leaning against the wall, hands in pockets. The corner of his lips is curled up, forming a small smile, and his eyes are boring right into Cristiano, almost challengingly. He looks just as Cristiano remembers him.

“Xavi,” He breathes out, the name feelings strange on his tongue. “What… Are you doing here?”

“I asked you a question, Cristiano,” Xavi starts stepping closer, walking over slowly until he’s only a few feet away from him. “So,” he tilts his head to the side, studying him carefully. “Are you?”

Cristiano shakes his head slowly, eyes locked on Xavi, unable to look away. “No.. No. I’m really not.” He whispers, his voice breaking at the end.

Xavi looks down to the ground, smiles, and then looks back up at him again. “Thought so.” He throws the words casually, matter-of-factly. The man digs into his pocket then, fishing out a tiny, shining object. He takes Cristiano’s wrist with his free hand, and places the object in his hand. When Cristiano looks down, he finds a small, golden clock-shaped keychain in his open palm.

“You have one chance,” Xavi’s voice cuts through the haze, making him look back at him. “I’ll send you back one Clásico _before_ the incident and you’ll have one chance to fix it.” Xavi lets go of him and steps back. Mist starts filling the room, and Xavi’s silhouette starts becoming blurrier by the second. The last thing Cristiano can see is him raising a hand, holding up one finger. “Only one.” And then he disappears.

 

“Cris.. Cris? Cristiano!”

Cristiano looks up. Sergio and Marcelo are leaning over him, looking worried. They’re exchanging concerned glances and looks between them. It takes some time for Cristiano’s mind to register that they’re in the Bernabéu, in the middle of a Clásico match. Santiago Bernabéu. El Clásico. Leo Messi.

The thought is like a bucket of fresh ice.

“Messi!” He jerks up, body bolting into a sitting position. “Where’s Messi?”

“Woah, man, calm down,” Sergio throws his arms up in surrender and laughs. “So much for not being over competitive.”

Cristiano ignores him, his frown only deepening as he looks around, trying to figure out where and, more importantly, _when_ exactly he is. “How much time’s left until the end of the match? What’s the score?” He demands in a rush.

Marcelo, who was looking as amused as Sergio seconds ago, frowns and his expression turns serious. “We’re losing 2-1 and there’s twenty minutes until the end of the second half.” He squats down, placing a hand on Cristiano’s forehead. “Man, are you sure you didn’t get a concussion? It didn’t look serious, but…” He trails off, biting his lip.

Cristiano pushes his hand aside and waves a hand dismissively. “I’m fine, fine.” As much as he appreciates the concern, he doesn’t have the time for this right now. He reaches his hands out and the other two immediately take them, one hand each, and pull him up to his feet.

Cristiano looks around. They’re playing at home _,_ so it must be the first leg then, he figures. He isn’t sure and he wants to ask, but at the same time he doesn’t want to worry his teammates any further. The last thing he needs right now is getting subbed off because of a so-called “concussion”. Xavi said he will get him back one match _before_ , so he must be in the first leg. If his guess is right, then he still has enough time until _that_ match. Good.

He looks around, searching for a very specific player among the sea of white and blaugrana. Messi is right there, between Suárez and Alba, looking as healthy and fit as ever. Cristiano breathes out in relief.

“Cris,” Sergio steps closer, covering his mouth with a hand to hide his words from the cameras. “You feeling good to take the free-kick or do you want someone else to do it?”

Cristiano shakes his head slowly. “No, I’m fine. I’ll take it.”

He walks over to the white line the referee drew on the pitch where the foul took place. The realisation that he remembers this moment hits all of a sudden. He can recall this exact free-kick, can recall how high the Barcelona players forming the wall jumped, how he sent the ball flying straight into the net. He struggles to push down the smirk when he realises that he _can_ use this past knowledge to bend the game into their favour, can make them win.

He steps back, getting into position. He’s ready to take the shot when his eye catches Messi again. His mind flashes back to the incident, him lying on the grass, being carried away on a stretcher, and he winces visibly. _Maybe_ , Cristiano thinks, just maybe, if Real loses this leg Barcelona will be less eager to win the next match and the accident can be avoided. _Only one chance_ , Xavi’s voice echoes in his head. Cristiano decides not to risk.

When the ball goes over the crossbar he makes a grimace, pretending to be disappointed.

 

The moment the match is over, Cristiano turns around, eyes searching for Messi. When he finally finds him, the Argentine is pressed between Piqué and Suárez, walking into the tunnel. Both have an arm around his shoulder and they’re all laughing together, talking about something seemingly amusing.

Cristiano throws the water bottle in his hand down and jogs over to catch up to them. He ignores Marcelo calling his name and Busquets reaching out to shake his hand, marching straight to the tunnel. Once he’s inside, safe from the cameras outside, he calls Messi’s name.

“Messi!” His voice is loud, insistent, indisputable as he makes his way through the tunnel, getting closer to the three with every step. “Messi!”

Once his voice reaches them they stop, slowly turning around. Suárez looks wary, like he doesn’t trust him, Piqué glares in annoyance, Messi just looks confused.

Cristiano stops as well, just a few feet away from them, arms crossed over his chest. Without much of an explanation, he blurts out. “You can’t play the next match.”

Silence settles. Suárez’ gaze turns judgemental, Piqué is staring at him like he’s gone mad. Messi blinks, expression going beyond confused into completely lost. Thinking about it now, Cristiano realises it might’ve not been one of his brightest ideas.

Then Piqué bursts into a fit of laughter. “That’s a very funny joke, man,” He says, addressing the other two more than Cristiano himself. Suárez is trying to glare, but he’s visibly fighting laughter himself.

Sergio and Marcelo choose that moment to enter the scene as well. Sergio stands next to Cristiano and tilts his head, studying his expression. He looks amused and puzzled at the same time. “Cris, are you _sure_ you didn’t get a concussion?” He asks, but his voice is more joking than serious.

“No offence, mate,” Piqué speaks up again, and this time it _is_ directed at Cristiano. “But you’ll have to come up with a better plan if you wanna win.” His grip on Messi’s shoulder tightens, unconsciously pulling him behind himself protectively. “Like, I don’t know.. Starting to actually score.”

Sergio’s shoulders tense and he frowns. “Woah, man, fuck off.” He snarls, glaring venomously at Piqué, reaching a hand to rest on Cristiano’s shoulder.

Cristiano would’ve probably gotten offended, under different circumstances. But he has his priorities sorted out, mind you, and no time to deal with this bulshit. He clenches his fists and stops glaring at Piqué, turning to look at Sergio and Marcelo for support. “No, you don’t understand,” He insists. “Messi _can’t_ play the next leg.” His eyes dart to meet Messi’s. Maybe he can get at least him to understand. “I can’t tell you why but you can’t.” He realises he sounds crazy, but there really is no other way to put it.

Marcelo frowns. “Let’s take him to the medical team,” He murmurs to Sergio. “I don’t like it.”

Cristiano turns to glare at him in betrayal. They’re supposed to be on _his_ side. _I’m not crazy_ , he wants to protest, but Piqué and Suárez are already dragging Messi away and he has no choice but to sigh in disappointment and let the two defenders lead him to the medical room.

 

“He seems to be fine.” The nurse announces, pulling his gloves off. “No signs of any physical injury, internal or external. The adrenaline level in his veins does seem a bit too high, though, so I would suggest he rests today.”

Marcelo lets out a sigh of relief and sags against the exam table Cristiano is sitting on.

“Cris,” He whines, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him into a hug. “You scared us.”

Cristiano’s mind is still not completely with them, but he places a hand at the back of Marcelo’s neck, playing with his hair. It’s impossible to stay mad at him for too long.

“Sorry,” He mumbles quietly. He should probably find a way to broach this subject without ending up in the clinic. Huh. Who could’ve thought.

Sergio sits down on the exam table as well, on his other side. “Don’t worry about the loss, Cris,” He says cheerfully, hitting his shoulder with a fist. “We’ll get back at them in the second leg.”

It’s not the game he’s worried about, but it’s easier to pretend that it is. “Yeah, you’re right.” He looks up and smiles at both of them. “Thanks. Sorry.” Well, nobody said he can’t try again. Cristiano looks over at Sergio, offering no further explanations as he asks. “Can you text Piqué and ask what hotel they’re staying at?”

Marcelo narrows his eyes. “I don’t like where this is going.”

Sergio has one of his best, widest grins on. “Are you going to punch him for me?” Cristiano can’t tell if he’s joking.

 

It’s a harder task than he supposed. He doesn’t even manage to get past the defence. Figuratively and literally.

Piqué is leaning against the doorframe, door opened only to the length of his shoulders, glaring at him in open hostility. “I thought I told Ramos to tell you to fuck off.”

Cristiano gives him a dry smile. “You did,” He responds cockily. “And yet, here I am.”

Piqué squints and moves away, ready to close the door. “Bye Ronaldo, get lost.”

Cristiano pushes a foot between the door and the frame before the defender can shut it. “Please,” He says, voice radically turning from cocky and arrogant to almost pleading. “I really need to talk to Messi.” He isn’t quite desperate enough to start begging, but if being nice and polite is what it takes to win Piqué’s attention over, he will do it. “It’s important.”

Piqué gives him a look. He looks suspicious but some of the tension in his shoulders seems to loosen. Cristiano takes the chance to explain.

“He can’t play the next leg.” He’s speaking rapidly, words coming out in a rush. “Don’t ask me how I know it but if he does, he’ll get injured.” Piqué still doesn’t look like he’s ready to believe him but at least he’s listening. “And then..” Cristiano wets his lips, swallowing before letting the words out. “Then he won’t be able to play again.”

Piqué’s eyes go wide for a moment and then he narrows them again, looking even more furious than before. “Fuck you, Ronaldo.” He spits the words out in anger. “You don’t joke about stuff like this.” He fixes him with a cold, judgemental glare. “I thought you’re better than this.” And then he slams the door in his face.

Cristiano lets out a long sigh and leans against the closed door. So much for trying to help.

 

He’s lying on a hammock outside of his house, swinging lightly back and forth. The sky above him is bright and clear, no match for his current mood.

Technically, it’s too early to start panicking. There’s still time until the second leg, and he hasn’t even talked directly with Messi yet. And yet. If, supposedly, he does get to speak with Messi, what will he tell him? The same thing he told Piqué? If it didn’t work on him, why in the world would it work on Messi?

Cristiano groans and buries his face in his hands. What was Xavi even thinking when he sent him back here without any kind of instructions? It’s his team, after all, not Cristiano’s.

A car honk pulls him out of his thoughts. Cristiano rolls over and sits up, looking over to the gate. He finds Luka waving at him out of the window of his car. Cristino smiles. Maybe the presence of someone calm and rational is exactly what he needs right now.

“You forgot some of your stuff at the stadium so Sergio and Marcelo asked me to drop it off.” Luka explains as he gets out of the car, placing Cristiano’s duffel bag in his arms. “I live not far from here so I was passing by the neighbourhood anyway.”

Cristiano smiles warmly at him. “Thank you.” He says genuinely, taking the bag. “I was just wondering where my phone went..” He freezes when he notices it. There’s a keychain hanging from zip of one of his bag’s pockets, and he knows for a fact that it hasn’t been there before. He recognises it, however. It has a short chain with a small golden clock attached to the end. The one Xavi gave him.

“Cris?”

Cristiano snaps out of his haze, looking back at Luka. “Yes, sorry.” He smiles again. “Wanna come in for a cup of something?”

 

They’re sitting outside of the house, in the terrace. Luka said just tea would be fine but Cristiano insisted on making a fruit shake for them both. Luka just nodded and thanked him, which was an interesting contrast to Sergio and Marcelo, who never stopped making fun of his “healthy obsession” whenever they came over.

“Luka.. Can I ask you for advice on something?”

Luka looks up at him and nods. “Yeah, sure. What is it?”

“It’s.. A bit of a complicated story.” Cristiano admits. “Do you want me to switch to English for this, or..?”

“Spanish will do just fine,” Luka assures him. “Go on.”

“Okay,” Cristiano leans back into his chair, wondering how he should put it. “So… Imagine that something bad is about to happen. And you were given the chance to prevent it. But when you try to warn people about it, they don’t believe you.” It all sounds pretty wary, he knows, but Luka doesn’t press for any explanations and Cristiano is grateful for that. “What would you do?”

Luka ponders the thought for a moment, playing with the glass in his hands. He looks like he’s trying to solve a math problem. “You said I was given a chance to prevent it.”

“Yeah.” Cristiano nods in confirmation. “Like.. By someone. Someone gave you this chance.”

Luka hums, thinking it over in his head. “Well.. So that means that person, who gave me the chance, knows as well.”

Cristiano nods again, wondering where Luka is going with this. “Yeah.”

Luka shrugs. “Then I would probably try to talk to that person and get them to help me.” He concludes.

Something in Cristiano’s mind snaps. Everything falls into place. Of-fucking-course. How could he miss that?

“Cris?” Luka snaps his fingers in front of his face. “You alright?”

Cristiano looks up at him. He’s beaming. “You’re a goddamn _genius_ , Luka!” He exclaims loudly. He leans forward, catches his face between his hands and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you!”

Before the other has the chance to ask what exactly he’s thanking him for, Cristiano jumps up, shoving his phone into his pocket. “I’m sorry, I have to leave, it’s urgent.” He feels like a bad host leaving him like this, but the time until the second leg is limited and he still has to join the others for training the next day. He runs into the house, grabbing his duffel bag from where it’s still lying in the living room, picks the car keys up from the kitchen table and returns back to Luka. “You can stay here as long as you want, just lock the gate when you leave. Tell the others I’ll be back by tomorrow.”

Luka just nods, not trying to question Cristiano’s strange behaviour. Cristiano marches toward the garage, getting into his car. Once he’s inside he pulls out his phone and dials his manager.

“I need you to get me an address. And a ticket to Qatar, as soon as possible.”

 

It’s early night in the Middle East by the time he arrives. It’s ridiculously hot and the air is filled with humidity, but the cold breeze coming from the sea makes it better. It reminds him of Madeira, in a way.

“Just a second!” He hears Xavi yelling from afar as he makes his way down the stairs to open the door.

The moment his eyes land on Cristiano his entire expression shifts. He blinks, looking puzzled and confused, no trace of recognition on his face.

“Ronaldo..” He glances behind him, as if searching for cameras or journalists that would explain his presence here. “Is there.. Can I help you somehow?” He manages finally.

“Messi got injured in the next Clásico and you sent me back to fix it but I don’t know what to do.” Cristiano blurts out in a rush before he can think of a better way to put it.

Xavi narrows his eyes. “Ha ha, very funny.” He mutters, in a tone that indicates that this is not the first time he has to deal with this. “Goodnight.” He goes to close the door, and Cristiano almost has to watch the door being slammed in front of his face for the second time in the span of twenty four hours, but before it can happen he grabs the keychain from his pocket and shoves it forcibly into Xavi’s hands. “I’m not joking, just _listen_.” He hates how desperate his voice sounds.

But it seems to do the trick. Xavi stares at the clock-shaped keychain, and stares, and stares, as if it’s a colour-changing alien that Cristiano just placed in his hands. “Where did you get this?” He asks, voice a bit hoarse.

“You gave it to me.” Cristiano states pointedly. “Please believe me.”

Xavi stares at it for a bit longer before shoving the keychain into his pocket and looking up to meet Cristiano’s gaze. “Alright.” He says quietly and steps aside to make room for him to enter the house. “Come inside.”

 

Xavi led him into the kitchen and made him sit down. Then he gave him a green light and Cristiano told him everything. About the game, about the brief interaction he had with Messi after that, about how nothing ever felt right after that. Then about how Xavi sent him back, about how everyone thinks he’s crazy, even his own teammates, and how he has no idea what he’s supposed to do. Xavi listened to him patiently all the while without interrupting. While Cristiano kept talking he made them two cups of coffee and put some food on the table that Cristiano doesn’t know but likes the smell of.

So now they’re sitting at the table, eating some weirdly soft Arabic bread (that’s apparently called pita) with hummus, labneh and zaatar. Cristiano wants to make a joke about how well Xavi got integrated into the Middle Eastern society, but the subject they’re talking about isn’t exactly a laughing matter, and he really doesn’t want Xavi to kick him outside in the middle of the night.

“You see, the thing is that,” Xavi begins slowly, studying the coffee in his mug. “I can’t really go through time myself. Only send other people back forth.” He looks up, sending a meaningful glance Cristiano’s way. “And only under very special circumstances.”

Cristiano plays with the mug in his hands, purposefully not meeting the other’s gaze. “Well.. I may or may not have had a small meltdown after the gala.” He admits truthfully, averting his eyes to the ceiling. It feels pretty ridiculous now, when he says it out loud like this, but there’s really no other way to put it.

When he finally gets the courage to make eye contact again he finds Xavi smiling at him softly, a strangely affectionate light in his eyes. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He says. “I’ve always said it, Madrid and Barça most closely resemble lovers rather than enemies.” There’s something knowing in his eyes and Cristiano feels his face flush against his better judgment. Xavi is so old, so wise, and Cristiano looks away again, unable to bear the heaviness of his gaze any longer. It’s really unlike him, but he can do nothing about it.

“I really.. Want to keep playing with Messi.” The confession stumbles out of his mouth with no warning, leaving him completely open. Well, if they’re at that point, he can as well just put all of his cards down on the table. Cristiano looks at Xavi, eyes determined. “But I don’t know how to do that. Help me.” He isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be a plea or a command.

Xavi is quiet for a while. He’s clearly thinking about it so Cristiano just stays quiet as well, not wanting to interrupt him.

“You remember the course of events of this reality? I mean - if you don’t interrupt it, everything stays the same. Right?”

It takes him a moment to take in the question, but once he does, Cristiano nods slowly. “Yeah.. Yeah. Everything goes the same way as I remember it being. Unless I change something, that is.”

Xavi listens carefully. Cristiano can almost hear the gears in his head turning around as he thinks it all over, trying to reach a solution.

“Can you recall it bit per bit?” He asks. “The match, I mean. All the details. The line ups, the score, the exact moment of the goals. Maybe some noteable events? Cards, the minutes they were issued.”

Cristiano frowns in confusion. He doesn’t see how it has anything to do with it - they’re talking about Messi, not about game tactics. But he trusts Xavi to know better than him, so he just keeps his questions to himself and replies. “Well, I.. I can try. I wasn’t purposefully trying to memorise everything back then, but I guess I could recall some of that.”

Xavi nods. “Good.” Cristiano must look pretty goddamn confused, because Xavi finally takes pity on him and explains. “Look, the real problem here is that nobody will believe you, right?” He waits for Cristiano to nod and then goes on. “So what we actually have to do is give them some kind of proof that you’re saying the truth. And if you give Leo, say, the line-up of the match before it’s even decided, then when it is announced…”

Cristiano’s eyebrows shoot up; his eyes are as wide as it gets, struck by both the brilliance and the simplicity of the idea. He feels the urge to kiss someone for the second time this day already; but Cristiano isn’t on the same familial terms with Xavi as he’s with Luka, so he just settles for gaping at him, mouth hanging open. Regardless, it seems to be enough of a reaction for Xavi, who leans back in his chair, a smug smile on his face.

They spend the rest of the evening at the same table, trying to make as accurate of a summary as Cristiano can recall. Xavi keeps asking questions, pressing for the most detailed answer he can get, stretching Cristiano’s memory beyond what he thought was possible.

Xavi’s wife comes in in the middle of the session. Cristiano tenses, mentally preparing a logically-sounding excuse for being there, but instead of questioning his presence like he thought she would, the woman mumbles something about having a dream about Voldemort, presses a kiss into Xavi’s hair, tells him not to stay up too late, pours herself a glass of water and leaves.

By the time they finish Cristiano has four full papers filled with notes, bullet points and necessary information. He’s incredibly exhausted, but satisfied.

Cristiano leans back in his chair, chewing on a piece of grilled bread. “If only I had you back in primary school, Xavi, I would pass any existing exam.”

Xavi chuckles, sitting in a similar position across from him. “I will take that as a compliment,” He stands up slowly, rubbing his half-closed eyes tiredly. “Do you want to stay over?” He offers casually, surprising Cristiano. “It’s pretty late.”

Cristiano takes a moment to consider the offer - it would be nice to get some decent sleep before flying back, yeah - but his common sense and the mental countdown to the second leg he set up in his head get the best of him. “Thank you, but I should really go. The faster I get back, the better.” He answers truthfully. “I will get some sleep on the plane, on my way back. And moreover,” He adds after a moment of thought. “It’s earlier in Spain than in Qatar, I’ll win a couple of hours.”

Xavi nods and offers to call a cab for him. While Cristiano is organising his things, placing all the notes they prepared in his bag, Xavi packs some of the food left in a box and hands it to him with the words “Here, take a small piece of the Middle East back with you”. Cristiano just smiles and accepts it wordlessly.

When he’s already standing in the doorway, ready to leave, Cristiano finally asks the question that’s been circling around in his head for a while now.

“Don’t you want to come with me?” He blurts out. “I mean - Messi is one of your people. Shouldn’t you want to do it yourself?” The actual question he wants to ask is _how can you trust me?_ but he can’t bring himself to voice that. Xavi seems to hear it nonetheless.

“I already told you, Cristiano,” He says, and there’s something very strange about him using his first name like that, casually and amicably. “I can only send people through time when there’s a very good reason for that. If you’re here, it means that your motives and intentions are real.” He gives him a warm smile. “So I trust you with Leo.”

Cristiano can do nothing but nod along in understanding.

 

When his pilot asks him for the destination of the flight, Cristiano finds himself naming Barcelona’s airport. The rest of the squad will have to go there to play the second leg soon anyway, he reasons, so he may as well save himself the trouble of traveling back and forth a ridiculous amount of times.

He rents a room in the hotel they usually stay in and calls Zidane to tell him that he’s already in Barcelona for business (it’s not a complete lie). Then he collapses on the bed and falls asleep as soon as his head meets the pillow.

When he wakes up it’s already way past noon, Barcelona’s sun breaking past the curtains, the rays forming different shapes on his skin. Cristiano rolls over and reaches for his phone. He goes through his contact list until he reaches a number he hasn’t touched in a long while.

Higuaín picks up on the third ring. “Cris?”

Cristiano smiles. “Hey, Pipita!” He greets him cheerfully. “How are you?” After they spend a few minutes exchanging greetings and catching up on what happened in each’s life since the last time they talked, Cristiano brings up the point of his call.

“Listen, man. I need to ask you a favour, but I need you to not ask any questions. Can you do that?”

He can practically hear the confused frown in his voice as he replies. “I mean… Depends on what it is,” He lets out a laugh. “No, but really, Cris, man, whatever you need, you know it. What is it?”

“I need you to send me Leo Messi’s home address in Barcelona.” He responds without missing a beat.

 

Messi doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door to Cristiano standing in his doorway, hands in pockets, eyes covered with sunglasses, leaning against the wall, like he does that all the time. In fact, he almost looks like he was expecting him.

His hair is still a bit wet and there’s a towel hanging around his shoulders, so Cristiano supposes he just got back from training a while ago. He’s grateful for the sunglasses hiding his eyes when his gaze instinctively goes down to Messi’s leg - there’s no cast, he looks as healthy as ever. There’s a ridiculous, happy feeling of relief bubbling in his stomach and the mere presence of it makes him unreasonably angry.

Without any kind of greeting or introduction he pushes past him, walking inside the house. Messi doesn’t try to stop him. He closes the door and follows Cristiano patiently into the living room.

Cristiano looks around, not trying to be subtle. The house seems very cozy and domestic, but he didn’t come here for that. He takes off his glasses, tucking them in his shirt, grabs an apple from the plate standing on the table and flops down on one of the couches. Messi doesn’t sit next to him; he leans against the back of one of the armchairs across from him, studying his face intensely. Cristiano almost fidgets under his insistent gaze. _Almost._

It’s Messi who speaks first. “So I see Geri hasn’t scared you off.”

Cristiano snorts. “Like hell he would.” His eyes keep darting back to Messi’s leg every once in a while, almost like he’s _worried_ or something, and it annoys him to no end.

Messi cross his arms over his chest and tilts his head. They’re back to the tense silence before he speaks up again. “Geri thinks you hit your head.” He states.

Cristiano sneers. He wants to say that he doesn’t fucking _care_ what Gerard Piqué thinks about him, but holds it back. “So why did you let me in then?” He questions, looking straight at Messi challengingly. “Why won’t you just kick me out?”

Messi shrugs. “Dunno,” He says casually, like he hasn’t actually thought about it until now. “Maybe because I’m interested to hear whatever that is you’re trying to say more than annoyed.” His lips curl up into an amused smile suddenly. “It’s almost like having a fan stalk you,” He says teasingly. “But that fan is a superstar footballer.”

Cristiano scoffs and looks away in annoyance. Messi is not taking him seriously, he knows, he’s just entertaining himself. Cristiano feels like he’s being made fun of and he hates it. He wants to throw back a cocky comeback, but it feels a bit pointless all of a sudden. At least Messi is listening to him, that one is true. At least he hasn’t attempted to shut the door in his face or send him to a doctor, like some of the others. It must be a good sign.

Cristiano fumbles with the notes in his pocket until he finds the one he needs. He pulls out the small piece of paper and places it on the table between them.

“I can’t tell you how I know because you’re going to laugh at me, but if you play this match… You’re going to get injured.” His eyes find their way to the other’s tattooed leg again. It doesn't escape Messi’s watchful gaze. “And I can prove it.” He places a finger on the paper and slides it over to Messi’s side of the table. “These are both teams’ line-ups for the match and the goals until halftime.” He states. “I couldn’t know it if I was making this up!”

Messi steps over to the table and picks the piece of paper up, turning it around between his fingers. He still doesn’t believe him, that much Cristiano can see, there’s nothing but curiosity in his eyes. It’s like a game for him.

“A 1-2-4-3 formation for Barça and no Benzema in the starting eleven?” He asks, raising an eyebrow as he looks over at Cristiano. “Maybe you should give this to Sky Bet, not me. Could earn some money if this turns out to be true.”

Cristiano grits his teeth, wondering why he came in the first place. Whatever. Messi will change his mind when the starting eleven’s are announced.

“Think whatever you want to,” He says, standing up and putting his sunglasses back on. “But when you see that I’m right, do make sure to ask your coach to rest you today.”

He leaves before he can hear Messi’s answer.

 

The next time he sees Messi is a few days later, when the second leg of the supercopa finally arrives. There’s only a few minutes left until they should go onto the pitch to warm up. Cristiano leaves the dressing room to search for Zidane, but instead he stumbles upon him.

Messi is standing in the middle of the tunnel, eyes glued to the phone in his hands. He’s wearing the complete starting home kit. Cristiano bites hit lips angrily.

“So you’re playing after all?” He asks, voice loud and accusing.

It catches Messi off guard. He flinches and looks up. When he sees Cristiano his expression closes off and he narrows his eyes. “Look,” He begins slowly, and Cristiano can just tell by the tone of his voice that he _still_ doesn’t believe him. “Your future-seeing abilities are really impressive and everything, but I think I will pass.” He gives him a half-hearted smile and turns to leave.

For a moment, Cristiano considers just dropping all of it. After all, it’s Messi’s career they’re talking about. Why does he care about it more than Messi himself? If he doesn’t want his help then so be it. He’s not going to force anyone.

But then his mind flashes back back to the match. To the silent, panic-filled Camp Nou. To how empty the gala felt without him. To how pointless it felt, winning La Liga against a Messiless Barcelona. To how broken and devastated Messi looked, lying in the white hospital room, leg unmoving. And he changes his mind.

“Oh, hell no, you won’t.” Cristiano snarls, and before he has the time to think about it he’s grabbing Messi’s forearm and dragging him away from the pitch. “You’re coming with me.”

Messi lets out a high yelp at the sudden contact. “What the hell, Ronaldo?” He tries to protest and get away from his grip, but Cristiano isn’t six full inches taller than him for nothing.

Cristiano doesn’t know where he’s taking them himself, so it’s a surprise even for him when he opens the door to a small storage room and steps inside, pulling Messi after him. He locks the door, crosses his arms and leans against it so Messi has no way out of there.

Messi’s hair is disheveled, sticking into different directions, and his eyes are wide, glaring at Cristiano in a mix of shock, confusion, but most importantly - anger. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” He yells angrily, hands clenched into fists by his sides, chest heaving up and down rapidly.

Cristiano can’t blame him. They’re in a pretty weird situation - in a tiny room, surrounded by brooms and cleaning products, merely half an hour before the start of El Clásico. He would be pretty freaked out and angry too.

“You don’t get it, I’m trying to help-”

“ _Help?!_ ” Messi’s voice is an octave higher than he’s ever heard it. “You’re trying to help?” He blinks at him, frozen for a moment, before throwing his arms up in the air and laughing. “That’s it, Geri was right. You’ve gone absolutely crazy.”

Cristiano watches him, still leaning against the door, feelings strangely calm. “I _am_ trying to help.” He stresses. “I’ll stay here with you through the entire match, if I have to.”

Messi crosses his arms over his chest defensively, looking unimpressed. “Oh, really?”

“Really.”

A pause. Messi presses his lips together, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re impossible.” He mutters to himself under his breath. “Alright,” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and opens them again. “Let’s suppose that your… Story is true. That if I play I’ll get injured.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts together and then continues. “So what? What’s the big fuss around one, small injury? Why do you suddenly care? Every normal player gets injured at least once per season. It’s not a big deal.”

“You don’t get it.” Cristiano says. He’s feeling impatient, misunderstood and mistreated, but then again, the way Messi sees the situation from his perspective is probably not that much better. “You just- you don’t get it.” He repeats, as if it somehow help Messi understand. “You.. It’s not _just_ some injury.” There’s a strange feeling of something tight and unpleasant clenching around his throat. “If you get injured, you won’t be able to play again.”

Messi stares at him. Then he stares some more. He’s quiet and he doesn’t seem as angry anymore. For a moment, Cristiano is hopeful that maybe he finally gets it. A pleasant, painfully short moment.

“You know what?” Messi asks, stretching his arms out to his sides. “I’m done,” He exclaims, voice on the verge of yelling. “I’m absolutely done with you. Go bother someone else.”

He pushes Cristiano aside with a surprising amount of strength for somebody his size and pushes the door open. Cristiano could, theoretically, overpower him and make him stay. But it feels wrong to do something like that. He’s trying to help, not make it worse (he isn’t sure he’s very successful).

Before he’s out of the door, Cristiano grabs his elbow and makes him look at him, one last time.

“Isco will get a yellow.” He says quietly, in a final attempt to make Messi believe him. “In the fifteenth minute, just after you get a corner kick.” He bites his lips, wondering if it’s even worth it. Well, at least nobody will be able to accuse him of not trying his hardest. “He’ll have an argument about it with Suárez, but before anything can happen they’ll be pulled apart. Then Casemiro will foul you and you’ll get a free-kick.” He’s speaking slowly, hoping that at least some of it will stay in Messi’s memory. “You’ll give it to Neymar and he’ll miss. But then he’ll score from Alba’s assist. In the eighteenth minute.” Cristiano pauses and bites his lip again.

Messi is looking at him, _really_ looking at him. Cristiano doesn’t want to think about the fact that this could be the last time they face each other on the pitch.

“Please, Leo.”

Messi jerks his arm, freeing himself from his grip. Cristiano just stands there, watching the bright yellow #10 MESSI on his back get farther away from him with every step.

He punches the storage door.

 

Isco does get the yellow. When it happens, while everybody’s eyes are on Marcelo and Alba pulling Isco and Suárez apart, Cristiano’s are searching for Messi. He can only see his back, but Cristiano likes to think that he did notice what happened, did make the connection to Cristiano’s words prior to that.

When Neymar scores, he celebrates by jumping on Alba and presses a firm kiss to his head, thanking him for the brilliant assist.

Cristiano isn’t making up the panic on Messi’s face when their eyes cross for a split second. Messi looks away quickly, pulls on a smile and joins his teammates in their celebration.

Cristiano isn’t making up the relief in his chest either. He lets his gaze linger for a bit longer before looking away too, pulling on a smile and walking over to Sergio to whisper tactics into his ear.

 

It’s Messi who approaches him this time. When the teams head to the dressing rooms after halftime, Cristiano slows down his pace, leaving the pitch last on purpose. Then he leans against the wall, just outside Madrid’s dressing rooms and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait too long.

Messi looks only a bit hesitant when he approaches him, eyes dancing around the tunnel, teeth worrying his bottom lip. He exhales and finally meets Cristiano’s eyes. “So.. What were you saying about an injury?”

Cristiano lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He closes his eyes, presses a hand to his forehead and sags against the wall, letting his limbs go limp. “Thank _fuck_.”

When he opens his eyes again a silent agreement passes between them and they both head into the tunnel, to the same storage room they were in an hour ago.

“We should probably find a way to get you subbed off as soon as possible,” Cristiano says, voicing the thoughts running through his head. Now that he thinks about, he doesn’t have any actual solutions. He’s been so focused on getting Messi to listen to him that he forgot about the practical part of the problem. “Can’t you just ask Enrique to switch you for Vidal or Alcácer in this half?”

Messi bites his lip, shifting his weight from side to side. “It’s.. Not that simple,” He admits. “Everyone will start worrying and ask if I’m okay - maybe bench me for the next match, and I can’t have that.” There’s more to it, Cristiano knows, but he isn’t going to push the matter. He doesn’t have to, however, because Messi tells him himself. “People like to talk, and over-analyse things.” He adds, “They’ll immediately start asking why I asked to be subbed off without any visible injury, and..” He trails off, offering him a one-shouldered shrug instead.

Cristiano nods. “I get it.” He really does. The press likes talking, likes loud headlines, god help them. Players like him and Messi get enough criticism as it is, without actually doing anything, so when something - even seemingly innocent - happens, they like blowing it into noisy stories. The sting of it dies down with time, but it never really goes away.

“What about..” It’s a stupid idea, really, but he has nothing else to offer and they’re really running out of _time_ . “I mean- What if you get injured on _purpose_?”

Messi looks at him funny. “Getting injured to avoid getting injured?”

“Yes. No.” Cristiano frowns, confused by his own thoughts. “In this case it’s more like getting a cut to avoid dying.” It’s not the best analogy, he realises as soon as he says it, but in this case, it’s better overestimating the situation rather than underestimating it.

Messi huffs. He’s playing with the hem of his jersey shirt thoughtfully, looking conflicted. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at him. “What about you?” He begins a bit hesitantly, but as he keeps speaking his voice gains confidence. “I’m gonna sit on the bench and watch while you’ll be running around and scoring?”

That does sound nice, Cristiano has to admit. But it took long enough as it is to gain Messi’s trust, he doesn’t want to risk it just for the sake of some joke. “I could do the same,” He offers with a shrug. “We could kind of,” he waves a hand between them “bump into each other and fall down. Anything can happen on the pitch, you know.”

Messi is visibly fighting a smile, but loses the battle. “Imagine Marca the next day” He says in amusement. “Ronaldo and Messi - head to head. Literally.”

Cristiano finds himself laughing despite himself. “Yeah, pretty much.”

A minute passes in silence, during which Messi is just standing there observing him, probably weighing his possibilities. “Okay.” He says finally, his words accompanied by a short nod.

“Good.” Cristiano turns around quickly before his traitorous face has the chance to give away the emotions rushing through him. “Let’s go then, it’s starting soon.” His fingers are clenched around the doorknob, ready to dart out of the small room, when Messi’s voice is heard again.

“Cristiano?”

It’s the first time he’s called him by his first name and Cristiano stops, frozen in the doorway. He turns around and nods, not trusting his voice to speak.

“Why are you helping me?”

There’s something different about his face when he says that. It looks more… open. Like the walls are finally down. There’s pure sincerity glistening in his eyes; for the first time, he looks at Cristiano like he really wants to _understand_ and Cristiano’s heart _hurts_.

He wants to tell him how empty the gala room felt without him, how heavy the trophy felt in his hands when there was nobody to compete with him for it.

“It wasn’t up to me.” He blurts out. “Xavi sent me back here.” His fingers are on the doorknob again, turning it and pushing the door open. “We should hurry up.”

When he looks at Messi again, the genuinity in his eyes is gone, replaced by the familiar indifference. “We should.”

 

They make it look oh-so-accidental when he and Messi bump into each other on the field, barely seven minutes into the second half, that any outsider has absolutely zero reason to suspect that it could’ve been planned.

And while the collision itself was absolutely harmless, the way down to the ground is a bit less so.

Cristiano winces when he falls to the grass, grabbing his left ankle with a painful hiss. Messi is lying on the ground right next to him, hand on his right calf. His expression is not one of joy, but he also doesn’t look like he’s in deep pain.

When Piqué comes running toward him, Messi grimaces and whispers hoarsely. “It kinda hurts. I don’t think I can keep playing.”

Piqué shoots him Cristiano death glare that promises nothing but trouble, and Cristiano has to bite his lip and look down to not burst into happy laughter right then and there.

In a matter of seconds they’re surrounded by worried teammates, who are then pushed aside by medics, and before any of them can register what’s going on they’re already sitting in the first aid room, being scolded by an annoyed nurse.

“You shouldn’t be this careless.” The man announces as soon as he finishes taping up Messi’s calf. “It’s nothing serious but you both got a pretty fair knock,” He stands up, grabs a notebook from his table and scribbles down something in it rapidly. “So no training for at least a week, both of you.”

Messi’s eyes go wide as he bolts upright, an indignant expression written over his face. “What?” He exclaims loudly, “But we’re playing Real Sociedad this week!”

The nurse glares at him, unimpressed. “You tell that to your stressed calf muscle, Señor Messi.” He grabs some papers from his table and heads toward the exit. “I have to talk to someone, don’t go anywhere.” And with that, the door closes, leaving them alone in the room.

They’re both still sitting on the exam table, backs leaned against the wall behind them. Cristiano’s feet are almost reaching the ground, while Messi’s are dangling mid-air as he swings them back and forth.

“It’s your fault.” He mumbles, bumping Cristiano’s shoulder with his, but his voice is lacking an accusing shade.

Cristiano lets himself smile. He’ll take that as a thank-you. “You’re welcome.”

They sit there in silence, shoulders close to each other but yet not quite touching. The air around him feels lighter, somehow. Cristiano isn’t sure if it’s just a psychological trick or not, but he feels like he can finally breathe freely again.

“Back then, when it just happened,” He speaks up suddenly, surprising even himself. “Everybody was pretty freaked out.”

Messi glances sideways at him. “Well, yeah, the scene we created was pretty realistic.” He looks down at his tapped leg and Cristiano’s bandaged foot. “It _did_ hurt.”

“No-- I meant,” Cristiano has the feeling that Messi knows perfectly well what he’s talking about, just pretends not to. Nevertheless, he still feels the need to voice it. “I meant. _Then_ then.” He doesn’t really know what words he should use to talk about it; it’s the future - it _was_ the future, until recently - but the future is now in the _past_ (thank god for that). “The other then.”

Messi doesn’t reply. He’s looking at something on the medical desk, studying the objects carefully. It’s not a yes, but it isn’t a no either, so Cristiano takes it as a sign to continue.

“I’ve never seen Camp Nou so silent during El Clásico.” Cristiano huffs out a laugh. Now that it’s all behind them, it’s easier to look back and laugh about it. “I think everyone was in shock. Sergio and Dani even went with Iniesta to visit you at the hospital.”

Messi doesn’t manage to keep an indifferent expression at the last part. His head shoots up and he looks at Cristiano in surprise, blinking. “Ramos and Carvajal visited me at the hospital?” He echoes, like he isn’t quite sure he heard what he just did.

Cristiano nods briskly. “Oh, yeah, they did. They were really apologetic about it, too.” He says. “It wasn’t really anybody’s fault, it was more of an accident, but I think everybody was feeling really guilty.”

“Even you?” Messi’s voice is teasing as he asks the question, but when Cristiano turns to look at him he’s surprised to find genuine curiosity in his eyes.

It wasn’t his fault at all, he did nothing, so he had no reason to feel guilty. That’s what he wants to say, but what actually finds its way out of his mouth is a brief “a bit”.

“I did visit you too, a bit later.” He adds. “But you were a bit..” he makes a vague gesture in the air, hoping that it will make up for the lack of a fitting word “..about it.”

Messi huffs. “Well, you can’t blame me.” He frowns. “Him. I mean-”

Cristiano chuckles. It’s all pretty entertaining, if you think about it this way. “Yeah, huh?” He glances down at his lap before looking over at Messi again. “We won La Liga after that, and then I won the best player trophy.” He can just sense how the other is about to make a snarky remark about it, so he hurries to add, “But it felt.. different. Not in a good way.”

Messi gives him a look. Cristiano isn’t able to tell what exactly it means.

“I thought Xavi sent you?” He drawls.

Cristiano rubs the back of his neck. “He.. did,” He admits slowly. “But I wanted to.” _needed to_ “It felt a bit pointless, without… you.”

Messi keeps looking at him. Then he looks away, biting on his lip and turning to look at the other end of the room. Cristiano can’t really see his face from where he is, so he leans closer. He realises it’s not the most tactful thing to do, but he needs to make sure his words weren’t taken in the wrong way.

It takes him a moment to realise the other is blushing.

“That’s kinda… nice of you.” The Argentine mumbles, voice small and timid all of a sudden. “Cute, even.” There’s a small, boyish smile tugging at the corner of his lip, betraying his expressionless facade.

Cristiano blinks. “I--” This time it’s him who averts his eyes, glancing around the room, feeling bashful all of a sudden.

The door opens again, making them both jump. The medic gives them both a funny look, glancing at them from above the lenses of his glasses. “The match just ended, by the way.” He says as he grabs a folder from his table and heads toward the exit again.

Both forwards immediately jump up, questions about the score and the goals stumbling out of their mouths, but before they can get too far, the nurse glares at them and gestures for them to sit back down.

“You’ll find out later.” He says strictly, a scowl twisting his eyebrows. “Stay here. I’m not done with you two yet.”

The door closes again.

Messi leans back, sagging against Cristiano’s side, and groans. “He must be an Atleti fan, he _hates_ us..” He mumbles aloud, which makes Cristiano let out a loud bark of laughter in response.

“Hey,” He turns to look at the other, smiling lightly. The tension from before seems to be completely gone. If anything, the atmosphere between them feels easy, comforting. “Wanna go grab something to eat after we’re done here? I’m starving.”

Messi blinks, then smiles. “Yeah, same.” He admits. He places a hand over his stomach, as if to prove just how hungry he is. “I really want some carbonara.”

Cristiano’s grin widens, showing two rows of white teeth. “Good.” He says. “Last time we were here Álvaro showed us an Italian place near here. It was really good.”

Messi’s smile follows Cristiano’s, growing into a full grin. “It better be.”

  


_Bonus:_

 

Real still wins La Liga (for real this time - the first place keeps jumping between Barcelona and Madrid until the very last match), but Leo takes the award (in Cristiano’s defence, the vote difference is barely two hundreds).

After the ceremony, when they’re out of the reporters’ sight, Leo approaches him, the metal silver torso shining in his arms.

“Regretting it yet?” He asks teasingly, eyes glistening playfully.

Cristiano takes a moment, as if to think about it. “Mmm.. Nah,” he drawls “I lost on purpose this year.” He teases back. “It’s time you got something too.”

Leo laughs lightheartedly. “I thought it was a peace offering.”

Cristiano’s smile softens. He leans back, pulling his hands out of his pockets and crossing them over his chest. “You free this evening?”

“Well, actually,” Leo says, stretching the last word out “I was going to drink and celebrate the win with Geri.. But it seems like he decided to cheat on me with Ramos.” He nods his head in the bar’s direction, and when Cristiano’s eyes follow the motion, he discovers that, indeed, Sergio and Piqué are there at the bar, a few empty glasses around them, arguing (talking?) heatedly about something he can’t hear. His lips curl in amusement at the scene.

“I wonder who they think is going to drive them back.” He says pointedly.

Leo shrugs dismissively. “Let them be.”

Cristiano nods. He’s right, it’s better this way. There’s always Luka who’s supposed to be somewhere around there, and he’s for sure not heartless enough to just leave them in the bar for the night.

Cristiano’s gaze returns back to Leo. “So,” He says, making the other’s eyes snap back to him. “Wanna come with me? We can celebrate together.”

Leo cocks an eyebrow. “Celebrate what?” His eyes travel down to the trophy in his hands and them back at Cristiano. “This?”

Cristiano smirks cheekily. “No. Me winning next year.”

Leo’s laughter is loud enough to make Piqué turn around. It doesn’t last for long, as Sergio taps him on the shoulder impatiently, annoyed at the lack of attention.

“Well,” Leo shrugs. “Why not?”

Cristiano smiles. “Good.” He reaches out a hand, placing it around the other’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

He’s surprised to find that he’s genuinely not upset about not winning.

If anything, losing has never felt as satisfying and motivating.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave comments to feed my soul, thanks


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